It turns out that there are a lot of mothers on our CLF staff—and that even those of us who aren’t mothers have something to say on the subject. What follows are some reflections on the subject of motherhood from five members of the CLF staff.
by Iris Hardin, membership administrator
Conversation 1 (Adam, age 6):
Mom: Adam, did you take Mama’s keys? Adam: Yes! Mom: You did? Adam: No!
Conversation 2 (Adam, age 12):
Mom: Adam, I like talking to you before bed, when the lights are out. Adam: I like talking to you, too, Mom. Mom: Why do you like talking to me? Adam: Because it’s very quiet in my room, and the light doesn’t hurt my eyes. Mom: Can you tell me what you’re thinking about? Adam: What I’m thinking about? Mom: Can you tell me what’s on your mind? Adam: (He raises his index finger to my ear.) Mom, can you hear that? Mom: No, Adam, what am I listening to? Adam: (He raises his wrist to my ear.) Can you hear that? Mom: Is it your pulse you want me to hear? Adam: Yes, Mom. That’s what I’m thinking about. That’s what’s on my mind. My pulse.
Adam is my 12-year-old son. He’s autistic. When my husband, Adam’s stepfather, was first getting to know my family, he wanted to know what my hopes and wishes were for this child. Adam was then 5 years old. This man’s greatest wish was to someday have a “real conver-sation” with his step-son. I was touched by that answer, but I couldn’t begin to imagine such a conversation. By that time, Adam’s twin brother Louis was a nonstop chatterbox (much like his mother, yours truly). But Adam, even when he did speak, couldn’t be counted on to engage in anything resem-bling “real conversation.” And I couldn’t be counted on to hope, at least not to the same degree that his step-dad could.
But it takes more than hope to make our conversations possible. And it takes more than an ability to ask the right questions. Conversa-tion with Adam, as with all children, takes a great deal of trust, and a fine-tuned, listening ear that will understand the answers. I’m not sure Adam was ready to tell me anything in the first conversation I’ve shared. But our recent chats truly blow me away! The conversation about Adam’s pulse led to his favorite Christmas gift—a stethoscope. He takes it up to his room every night at bedtime to listen to his internal rhythm. That’s what’s on his mind. It makes me wonder what Louis is thinking about these days….
by Lorraine Dennis, executive director
I like Mother’s Day. Really, I do. I like the idea that women who have such a strong and lasting effect on our lives are honored. Assuming, of course, that their effect was positive and that our feelings about our mothers, and about motherhood in general, are warm and happy. But it can be complicated.
As a mother, I work hard and feel the incredible responsibility, and now and then I feel a little underappreciated. So, the idea of an “official” day when my family remembers to thank me seems, on the surface, like a good idea.
But what about those women who don’t have a good time on Mother’s Day—who aren’t mothers—who have lost pregnancies—or children—or who want to be mothers and can’t seem to—or whose relationship with their mother isn’t good? What about them?
Mother’s Day has been great for me and it’s been terrible. Three miscarriages, a stillborn baby, years of infertility treatments—all these made me dread Mother’s Day. Then came the year our son was born. What a miracle! He was perfect and cute and everything we could have hoped for. I couldn’t wait for Mother’s Day. And even when we couldn’t get pregnant again, I hung in there and struggled through another few Mother’s Days with a little regret and a little guilt because I wasn’t quite satisfied with my one child. We wanted another so much.
So, we decided to adopt. And after lots of soul-searching and process and waiting, our daughter came home from Korea. Another miracle. At 18 months, my daughter was busy, laughing, running, chatting in Korean. And at night she would call for her Ooma, her mother. It was so obvious to me that she had been well loved in Korea. I couldn’t stop thinking about her birth mother and her foster mother. I think about them every Mother’s Day.
And then a long run of wonderful Mother’s Days. But our kids grew, our parents grew older, and suddenly all the grandparents were gone. My Dad died and then ten years later, in the space of six months, we lost my mother and both my husband’s parents. When Mother’s Day came, I had no reason to shop. My children were teenagers and they took care of me, as did my husband, but I felt so sad—another difficult passage, another struggle with this holiday.
Now, my children are young adults. They are bright and more independent every day, though they’re not quite done needing us, thank goodness. I am so grateful for the joy they have brought into my life.
But I remember those other Mother’s Days. I remember how much it hurt then, and even now it hurts a little, too. Like I said, I like Mother’s Day, but those who aren’t so happy this year should know that I understand and it’s OK and maybe next Mother’s Day or the one after will be better.
by Linda Berez, ministerial intern
I never wanted to have children, but I always knew that I wanted grand-children. To me, being a grandparent always meant getting to do the fun stuff, like going to Disneyland and the park and playing ball. In my case, getting what you wish for has been a blessing. At the age of 34 I became a grandparent to my first of what would be four grandchildren. The trick to becoming a grandparent without having kids comes in falling in love with someone who already has children—in my case, my partner of 11 years, who has two sons. They each have one boy and one girl. As it is with everything else in life, being a grandparent has not been all fun and games. Yet, given the chance to do it again, I’d say yes in a minute. Being Grandma Linda has been a very good thing.
How could I not feel proud of my ten-year-old grandson Caleb? I remember when he was four or five years old. A group of us had spent a day at the zoo. When we got back to the car we were saying our goodbyes. Caleb’s friend was standing there next to his parents’ car. All of a sudden he began crying. I realize that at that age not much reason is necessary, but there he was, bawling his eyes out. Caleb, who was standing next to him, reached over without prompting and pulled him into a hug, gently patting him on the back, telling his friend that everything would be OK. All this from a kid who would just as soon come over and tackle you or pretend to play sword games. I always wondered where the tender spot came from in him. Where did he learn how to respond to tears with such kindness?
As Caleb has gotten older and the geographical distance has become greater I find it harder to stay connected. I do keep up with his feats as the quarterback of his school’s football team and his outstanding scores on school tests, and I encourage his desire to read by sending books and magazines. Yet all of these things can never take the place of spending time with him. Like all grandparents who live apart from their grandkids, I look forward to summer vacations. This summer is no different. I’m already imagining our time together playing ball, going to the park and catching up on the time we’ve been apart. I have no intention of giving up on getting my wish.
by Lynn Ungar, minister for lifespan learning and Quest editor
Ever since the point of baby-hood when Mattéa’s hair reached what we called her “Lyle Lovett stage”—marginal hair on the back and sides, and a feathery brush on top—I’ve taken on the job of subduing, adorning, sculpting and generally relating to my daughter’s hair. I have to say that I’m proud of my role as “hair mom,” and pleased that Mattéa points to me when people ask “Who does your hair?” The reality, however, is that I didn’t take on doing Téa’s hair as a creative outlet. I simply realized early on that hair was a marker of racial acceptability. I feel conspicuous as the white mom of an African-American child. I feel even more conspicuous as one of two white moms of that Black child. And it didn’t take me long to figure out that the first thing African-American women asked about, after “Is that your baby?” was whether we knew how to do her hair.
Of course we didn’t know. We were a couple of well-intentioned white lesbians whose idea of getting fancy with our hair was a little gel and a blow drier. But, thanks to trial and error—and advice, solicited or otherwise, from a variety of friends and strangers—I think I can say that my hair skills are now the envy of at least the white moms of biracial kids at the Saturday morning hip hop class. It’s a start.
Perhaps it’s my mix of determination and anxiety that is the root of Mattéa’s own obsession with hair. Before the age of two she had firm opinions about how her hair should be done. “I want ballerina hair.” What foolish mom made the mistake of pointing out to a dance-crazed two-year-old that ballerinas wear their hair smoothed back in a bun? The process was not unlike trying to smooth a lion’s mane back into a tidy chignon, if only the lion were determined that the process should work. Now that she’s six, her dozens of tiny braids flow down over her shoulder blades. While it’s my job to keep the braids in good order, she’s taken over the creation of pony tails and pig tails and unnameable hairdos that owe more to creativity than to my sense of propriety. I have learned to avoid comments. After all, if I object when her stylings get too far beyond my norms, she calls me back with a quick “It’s my hair, Mom.”
It is. It’s her hair, her choice, her personality—all of them as different from mine as you can imagine. And it’s my job as her mother to cherish and support and honor and learn from those differences. It’s my job to try to provide a model not only for her, but also for a world that I hope will learn to see in my “different” family something as beautiful as Téa’s hair.
by Donna Dudley, fiscal administrator
One night several years ago, just as I was falling asleep, I was suddenly struck by the awareness that, in the event of an emergency, I was all alone with it. Just me and nobody else but me. Fire? Somehow I’ve got to get two kids out. Medical emergency? Only me to handle it. Break-in? Up to me to figure out how to protect my children. Of course, I had been intellectually aware of this, but had not yet felt it. Oh sure, I replace the smoke detector batteries regularly and I clean the heating system annually. I’m the poster child of responsible parenting. But we all know that truism of life in general and parenting in particular. Things happen.
Things we can’t anticipate or control. I decided then to introduce a new strategy into my arsenal of parenting tricks. Something not entirely typical for me. Crossing my fingers. And so far so good! No fire, no break-ins, no medical emergencies. I guess it works.
These are some of the pragmatic difficulties of single parenting. I think they’re the easier ones, frankly. One day, when I casually mentioned the merest possibility of marrying again, my 8-year-old daughter started crying, and said she didn’t want me to get married. When I asked her why it was okay that her dad remarried, but I shouldn’t, she replied, “Because you’re my mother!” Two years later, I remain a little baffled by this, but I dried her tears and reassured her that since I wasn’t even dating anyone, she was in no immediate danger of losing any of my attentions or affections. She seemed pretty satisfied with that.
Truth be told, I thought I’d do a lot better with this mothering stuff. But I’m pretty sure any “mother of the year” award I may be eligible for is shot by January 31st. Some days, just showing up for the job is as good as it’s gonna get. Which is probably why I feel a little discomfited by Mother’s Day. I hate those Hallmark cards. I am not a Hallmark mother. What I do like about Mother’s Day is that I’ve convinced my kids that they are supposed to do anything I want on this day. So I “make” them take me to the symphony, or the Arnold Arboretum, or the Museum of Science.
Stuff like that. Even my teenager goes without complaint. I enjoy their company. So, flying solo is okay. My kids have got the worst of me, but they’ve got the best of me too. Good enough to celebrate Mother’s Day, I guess.
Per Article VII, Sections 1 and 2, of the Church of the Larger Fellowship (CLF) Bylaws, the 25th Annual Meeting will be held on Friday, June 24, 2005 at the Fort Worth Convention Center, immediately following the CLF worship service. The purpose of the meeting is to:
Tad Crawford, Clerk May 1, 2005
by Victoria Weinstein, minister, First Parish, Norwell, Massachusetts
One blazing July afternoon I sat talking with the chaplain of the hospice where I was working at the time. Judy had just returned from a visit to one of our patients, an elderly woman in the final stages of cancer who had greeted her in a delighted mood. “Pastor!” she exclaimed. “I have such great news! I prayed to God to help me find my favorite pair of slippers and He answered my prayers! I found my slippers!” And Judy, overtired and irritated by the incredibly hot weather, remarked, “He must be having a slow day.”
This kind of response is what we would call in the ministry “empathic failure.” Believe me, Judy was wracked with guilt that she had allowed such a callous response to slip past her impatient tongue. For after all, who would begrudge a sick woman the comfort of believing that God takes a personal interest in her missing slippers?
I was reminded of this episode when on September 11, 2002, I watched a marvelous television show called “Faith and Doubt at Ground Zero.” This special took a comprehensive look at the American religious response to the events of 9/11, interviewing a wide range of those affected by the terrorist attacks.
One interview shows a man walking in a contemplative mood by the ocean’s edge. “I’m angry at God,” he says. He has reason to be angry. His sons, both firefighters, are dead and this grieving father feels that God has failed him. “God and I are no longer speaking,” he says. My heart aches for his sense of personal betrayal. His agony is sobering and reaffirms for us the importance of constructing theologies that make sense in times of suffering as well as in times of tranquility and joy. But while I grieve for this man’s alienation from his God, I also trust that time will provide some measure of healing to him, and that he may discover a wider sense of faith that can contain both his raging grief and his love of life.
People have been known to do this in the aftermath of terrible tragedy, although just as many people do not. In another interview on the same special, a man muses about the good luck that spared him a terrible death that day: “God must have a plan for me,” he says. This sounds a lot like that other comment we often hear under similar circumstances: “Someone up there was looking out for me.”
What’s wrong with this picture, and what is right with it?
And what in the world are we to make of that God?
It seems so harmless to believe that Someone up there is looking out for the fortunate, until we consider the theological implications for those who perish. Trying to domesticate God is a dangerous, if touching, human tendency. If the force that St. Paul referred to as “that in which we live and move and have our being” has any consistent quality throughout all of history, it is its insistently unnamable and untamable nature.
A notion of God as being intimately involved in our human lives comes to us courtesy of our Jewish and Christian heritage. In the four-thousand-year-old Genesis story we meet the God who demands that Abraham sacrifice his son Isaac. Some of us might prefer the version told by Woody Allen, in which God berates Abraham for obeying him—exclaiming, “Never mind what I said! Dost thou listen to every crazy idea that comes thy way?” With or without Woody Allen’s interpretation, we see an intimate relationship forged between a new God and his people, based on covenant and commandment. This God intervenes in history for his people. This God makes house calls! And personal appearances! And is heard by prophets as a voice in the burning bush or in the still, small voice after the raging storm. This is the God whom Jesus of Nazareth tenderly addresses as Abba (Daddy). So those who look for God to intervene in their own personal histories come by this desire honestly, heirs of a long line of ancestors who believed that the Lord acted on their behalf through the unfolding of time.
Along with this sense of the personal divine, of course, come attempts to create names, images and metaphors for the experience: Lord of Hosts, Sovereign, Almighty. Thrones, scepters, rods and staff that comfort me. God as shepherd, maker of peace, mother lioness protecting her cubs, God as a woman groaning with labor pains at the creation of the world. God the housewife searching for her lost coin. God as a mustard seed, as a fruit tree. God as the divine waiter who sets a banquet before me, even in the presence of mine enemies. These are all Biblical images for God, a rich array of metaphors and similes that circle around, but can never adequately capture what my colleague, Barbara Pescan, so memorably referred to as “unnamable magnificent intensity.”
By ourselves, in our private devotions, there is no real need to describe the holy presence we might sense beating at the heart of the world. In community, however, we are compelled to use language. And so we keep on trying.
Like many of you, I originally associated the word “God” so firmly with the old bearded king on the throne that for many years I had no desire to use the term. But as religious conservatives came into political ascendancy in the 1980s, I understood that others were only too happy to have me relinquish God as an idea and a word, and were busy putting God on their payroll in order to claim moral superiority and to influence policy. So I battled my way back into the conversation and struggled long and hard to find a way to say God in such a way that it would have meaning and integrity for me. I didn’t want to invoke “God” on Pat Robertson’s terms. It was difficult work. I had to get over a lot of anger and resentment. But it was work well worth doing, and brought me into company with a battalion of creative thinkers who were cracking open the god-egg to see what fresh creature might emerge.
Let us not be so naïve as to claim with an airy wave of our hands that God is just “a word.” We know that “God” has been a weapon in the hands of the hateful. Yet it has also been a tool in the crafting of works of breathtaking beauty, and a prayer intoned by the good and the compassionate and the true. “God” has been a whip used to slash the bodies of innocent men and women, and it has been the fire used to burn heretics and their books, as it was used by Calvin to reduce to cinders our forebear Michael Servetus. “God” has been employed as the cruelest of slave masters and the most sadistic of parents. Yes, “God” has been used to justify atrocities, but God is also invoked when justice is sought and reparation and healing are pursued. It is not just a word. It is perhaps the ultimate word, a powerful expression of all that variety of human instinct and experience I have just named.
Whether or not we choose to use the word “God” ourselves, we ought to know what we mean if we do use it and we ought to have a sense of what it means to us when we hear it. It would behoove us to be accomplished translators of the name. Because one thing is sure: God doesn’t seem to be going away any time soon.
Therefore, as part of our responsible search for truth and meaning, we listen for phrases that evoke the magnificent intensity and we look for images that lift the veil of illusion and alienation and reveal to us our ultimate unity. We glimpse the god-as-verb in acts of kindness and extravagant love, we catch intimations of the holy presence in the quality of the silence we create when we are together in reverent contemplation. Part of staying alive in our hearts as well as in our bodies is to trust that this godly thing is somehow real. Faithful to this possibility, in the words of the hymn in Singing the Living Tradition, we “bring many names, beautiful and good.”
Bring many names. A colleague of mine, a woman who is a survivor of childhood incest, told me once that she called God “Gladys”—the kind of approachable, homey name that helped her draw nearer the lap of the magnificent intensity to receive healing and a vision that could make her life more whole. And a 4-year-old girl named Katie recently informed her father that her private name for God was “Honkamiller.” To this day he has no idea where she could have possibly come up with that one. “Honk if you love Honkamiller.”
Once I was driving down to our district conference on the Cape and passing by bright red and orange trees as sunlight streamed in through the car windows. Feeling the intense joy of being in a New England autumn, I was thinking of the ee cummings poem that begins “i thank you god for most this amazing day” but I could not remember past that first line. So I repeated the phrase “i thank you god for most this amazing day” like a gentle mantra and hummed along to the stereo. Spiritual multi-tasking. The song at the moment was one of those old Beatles tunes that I have known forever, but whose lyrics I have never been able to hear clearly enough to understand. But this time, in the midst of my spontaneous driving devotions, the lyrics somehow popped out from the song, and I clearly heard this phrase:
Limitless undying love that shines around me like a million suns and calls me on and on across the universe.
I rewound the song again and again to that astonishing, evocative phrase. John Lennon once told a reporter that he got up in the middle of the night to pen these lyrics, which he said were almost channeled through him rather than composed by him. I’m glad John got out of bed. I am still moved by what is for me the most beautiful description of God ever provided by rock music.
Unnamable magnificent intensity. Spirit of Life. Limitless undying love calling us on and on across the universe. This holiness that we’re trying to name isn’t a thing, isn’t a noun. And it isn’t nameable, yet we have given it this meager, so easily misunderstood nickname, “God”—a word so abused it has caused many of us to discard not only the word but also the whole idea. But what a timeless and keen source of insight, healing, unity and wisdom a newly-discerned and reclaimed God could be! God, as Rabbi Abraham Heschel imagined, is the question put to each of us at our birth, to which we live our lives as an answer. A process making itself known through us in our acts of justice and compassion; the energy between us that impels us toward creativity, wholeness, synergy, harmony, beauty, and love. Such a small word for such immensity.
May we never forget the vast magnificence of that one inadequate but still (I believe) redeemable name. And, as my colleague Richard Kellway says, “would that we might pass beyond the word into the experience.”
by Jane Rzepka, senior minister, Church of the Larger Fellowship
Nobody cares what denomination you belong to. That’s what ministers are told these days: “People couldn’t care less.” The best bet, say the experts, is to keep parishioners happy by emphasizing Wednesday night stress reduction programs, divorce support groups, bridge nights, convenient parking—that sort of thing—in an up-beat and welcoming tone. “Give the consumers what they want and lure them in.” Believe me—none of the articles advises the clergy to ever describe the straight-up theological beliefs to members of the congregation, and certainly not the business meetings!
But I can’t help myself. The thing is, our Unitarian Universalist religion is a blast! I love it. Our purposes and principles in our by-laws—aren’t they pretty cool? We’re talking about the dignity and worth of every person. Justice and fairness and compassion. Spiritual growth. The search for truth and meaning. The democratic process—in a church! A love of the natural world. What’s not to like? We stand for something as a unique religion. If you spend much time contemplating a list like that, really, it is exciting and transforming—at least it is for me. Better than bridge.
Imagine the feeling this summer in Fort Worth, Texas, when delegates from Unitarian Universalist congregations—including 22 delegates from the Church of the Larger Fellowship—will gather at our General Assembly. You might join any group of five people, or a dozen, or a couple hundred, or thousands, and they would all be Unitarian Universalists who share the values expressed in our Principles and Purposes—more or less. This annual meeting will not be about bridge or stress reduction; this gathering will be about big-time religious issues like racial justice and healthy families. It will be about beauty and grace in religious life, about raising a new generation of children, about activism, about healing the spirit. And perhaps most exciting of all for the Church of the Larger Fellowship, with a group of young adults we will launch a new religious community at the 2005 General Assembly: the Church of the Younger Fellowship.
One thing I can pretty much guarantee. One way or another, if you go to GA in Fort Worth, you’ll have your moments. Moments that mean something, moments of excitement and inspiration, moments of silly surprise. I’ve been there, I know. In 1994, our General Assembly took place in Forth Worth, as it will again next month. When I arrived, the time and temperature sign said 96 degrees. I had never seen such a high number on a time and temperature sign before, so for fun I bought a throwaway camera and took a picture of the sign. This particular sign actually flashed, “96 degrees,” and then it went on to spell out the words, “Welcome Unitarian Universalist Association,” followed by “Mud-Wrestling Championships.” That was a moment right there, and I had only just arrived!
General Assembly is a gigantic town meeting, where representatives of congregations gather to decide what our association of churches, called the Unitarian Universalist Association, should do next. We have no pope, no hierarchy, no big guys behind the scenes making decisions for us, and consequently we have an enormous amount of democratic work cut out for us.
So the delegates are gathered there in Fort Worth, it’s 100 degrees now, I’m impressed, I take another picture of the time and temperature sign while I’m deciding which programs to go to next: Japanese Unitarians, young adult networks, socially responsible investing, weaving creative space, frontiers in the science-religion relationship, money and the meaning of life, Christian communions, creative writing as feminist liberation theology, or music and sounds as tools of healing.
I decide on a workshop—I really do. I consult the program book and determine the location. I check the map, find the right building, and approach the room number. But before I open the door, I hear singing from across the hall. A huge room full of Unitarian Universalists singing: well and with pep. My workshop plan foiled, though I’m more a listener than a singer, I reverse my trajectory and follow my ears. It’s not that the hymn is a particular favorite of mine, nor that I have fond childhood memories of singing it with Sunday school friends. What never fails to capture my attention at General Assembly is the simple fact of many hundreds of Unitarian Universalists singing our hymns together. I can’t find that any other place.
The experience of General Assembly is like that for me, days made up of moments. Running into someone I used to know in another context. Who knew we are both UUs? Hearing a new strategy for supporting stem cell research—boom—like a lightning bolt, it makes so much sense. Proudly listening to a youth at the microphone at a plenary session, pondering a theological point that’s completely new to me, engaging in hot debate over where we should put our money—not quite mud wrestling, but close. That’s what’s so great about General Assembly—you can walk into any room and see our religion made manifest.
I went outside on my last June evening in Fort Worth, where the time and temperature sign said “110 degrees.” It’s 6:30 at night and it’s 110 degrees! I’m impressed. I take a final picture.
Now, years later, the pictures long lost, I’ve gone and done it. In spite of the experts’ advice, here I am gushing about Unitarian Universalism, and our annual meeting. I hope it’s contagious, and I hope to see you there.
by Lynn Ungar, minister for lifespan learning
What’s your earliest memory? The first one I can put a date on is when I visited the kindergarten classroom that I was to join in the fall. I can still see the teacher, Mrs. Moore, holding up cards with pictures and asking us what jobs the people on the cards were doing. To my relief, kindergarten didn’t seem so hard, and I knew I was ready to take a big step in my life—elementary school!
What’s your favorite memory? That’s a hard one for me to choose, but I’d have to go for the day six years ago when my partner and I drove frantically from Chicago to the suburb of Oak Park. There, we had learned only an hour before, we were to meet our new daughter for the first time. We pulled into the parking lot of the adoption agency just as Margaret, the director, was driving in. She pulled up beside us, got out, and reached into the car seat in back for a little bundle of blankets. Margaret handed me the bundle, and there, in that chilly parking lot, I peered into the face of our week-old daughter.
What’s your saddest memory? That one’s not so easy either—not easy to choose, and not easy to think about. The summer after I graduated from high school I went away for a month’s vacation with my family. The evening of our first day back I went to the meeting of my Unitarian Universalist youth group. I was so happy to be back with my friends—until one of them told me that my dear friend Martha had died in a car crash while I was gone. As I stood there crying, my friends surrounded me, giving me comfort. But there was a hole in the circle where Martha should have been, and that hole would never—could never—be filled.
When someone we love dies, it seems like the world comes screeching to a halt. But eventually we have to go on with all the daily activities of life. We even want to. And then it can be hard to find a time when all the ongoing stuff of life can halt long enough for us to be still and remember the one, or ones, who are gone.
That’s why, in the United States, we have the holiday called Memorial Day—so we can stop for a bit and remember. Other countries, of course, have their own holidays to remember the dead, like el Dia de los Muertos in Mexico. But Memorial Day was designed with a particular focus: remembering people who have died serving their country in the military.
Different people have different opinions of whether any given war is necessary, or about the best way to solve serious conflicts between countries. But we all grieve when someone dies fighting for our country.
For many people in the United States, Memorial Day is just an excuse to stay home from work or school and maybe have a picnic. But you can choose to make this a truly religious holiday—a day when you think about what you believe, and honor your feelings for those who have died.
This Memorial Day (May 30th) you might want to make a point of talking with family or friends about the subject of war. What do they think about the war in Iraq? What do you think? Do you think that sometimes war is the only solution to a terrible problem, or do you think that there is always a better way to deal with the issues?
Maybe on Memorial Day you’d like to take some time to remember or hear about relatives who have died in a war. You might want to visit www.thewall-usa.com to learn about the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC, and to look up names of relatives or family friends who died in that terrible war. Or you might want to virtually visit the national World War II memorial at www.wwiimemorial.com.
Perhaps you’d like to make Memorial Day a time to think about or pray for peace. You can go to www.worldpeace.org to find out about the Peace Poles project, and to learn about this international movement for peace. You can even make your own peace pole or banner by going to www.worldpeace.org to find “May peace prevail on earth” in 83 different languages. You can choose four versions and write them in permanent marker on the four sides of a 4x4 post, or make a banner out of felt or other fabric with these wishes for peace in various languages.
Or you might want to take Memorial Day as a time to remember a relative, friend or pet who has died. To honor one of them you might want to write a letter recalling the things you miss about them. Or you could celebrate by doing something they loved to do. You might want to get out a picture of them (or draw a picture), and then, with a grown-up’s help and permission, light a candle to put next to the picture (in a safe place). Close your eyes and remember as many tiny little things about them as you can. If you do this with your family, then everyone can take turns sharing these memories. You can even finish your ceremony by sharing a food that was a favorite of the one who died. (Well, maybe not a pet’s food!)
Whatever you do for Memorial Day, remember that our Unitarian Universalist principle of affirming the inherent worth and dignity of every person means that every person who dies is a loss, just as every person who lives is a blessing.
Norbert Cápek was a Unitarian minister in Prague, Czechoslovakia, from 1921 until 1941, when he was taken by the Gestapo to prison camp. He was killed the next year, but the flower ceremony which he created is still celebrated by many Unitarian Universalist congregations each spring. When writing about spiritual moments he said:
Everything will calm down, thoughts seem to stop, and the spiritual cathedral of a great silence will open before one’s mind. The body appears to have a spiritual substance and spreads to infinity—and calm quiet, God's peace, sacred silence, are everywhere…. Is it mysticism? It depends. For some people it is as daily and natural an experience as breakfast. What was described here is certainly not the only form.… There are a multitude of others. Every eye sees the same world in a different way.
Everything will calm down, thoughts seem to stop, and the spiritual cathedral of a great silence will open before one’s mind. The body appears to have a spiritual substance and spreads to infinity—and calm quiet, God's peace, sacred silence, are everywhere…. Is it mysticism? It depends. For some people it is as daily and natural an experience as breakfast.
What was described here is certainly not the only form.… There are a multitude of others. Every eye sees the same world in a different way.
From “The Religious Experience of N.F. Cápek,” by Petr Dolák, in Faith and Freedom, vol. 53, Autumn and Winter, 2000, p. 109.
...that you can purchase order of service covers designed for your Flower Celebration? Go to www.clfuu.org and click on Gift Shop or call Beth at the CLF office (617-948-6150).
Last updated June 12, 2005
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